


Together We Can See What We Will Find

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Kink Meme, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:43:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quentyn Martell is not exactly the prince Sansa had in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together We Can See What We Will Find

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _Sansa/Quentyn._
> 
>  
> 
> _"He seems a decent lad, sober, sensible, dutiful. But not the sort to make a young girl's heart beat faster."_
> 
>  
> 
> _AU. Alliance between North & South. For years Sansa has been told she would marry a prince from the South, and her expectations have been fanned by certain members of her family (bonus if there's an awkward conversation with one or both of her parents/siblings where they slightly twist the truth or talk him up to get Sansa on board). When Quentyn comes to visit his betrothed, Sansa gets quite a reality check. Quentyn, however, is able to find the way to her heart through *ahem* her other parts (extra bonus if he learned his tricks from uncle Oberyn or his sister)._

Once, Sansa Stark was nearly Queen of Westeros. The offer was covertly made by Robert Baratheon, offering Joffrey as a husband and Sansa was truly heartbroken when Ned Stark refused it, sobbing for months about the golden prince she lost to Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden. Shortly after her fifteenth birthday, her parents call her into her father's solar and she's told there has been another offer for her hand. She hopes it is Loras Tyrell or even one of the handsome Lannister cousins, but instead her father says the offer has come from Quentyn Martell of Sunspear.

She did not even know there _was_ a Quentyn Martell of Sunspear.

"He's a wonderfully kind boy," her mother offers with a gentle smile. "They say he is exceptionally well-mannered, and Dorne is a beautiful place."

"You could be a princess of Dorne," her father chimes in, and Sansa suspects he says it because he wants to make her feel better.

It doesn't.

But there are no other proposals, at least not from houses of equal standing of House Stark, so Sansa consents. Two moons later, a letter arrives from Sunspear for her from her betrothed. It is polite enough; Quentyn asks her what interests her, and, when she tells him she likes music, he offers to bring a singer with him when he comes to visit. There is such a formality to the letters, Sansa feels as if she learns nothing about him at all, and she doesn't understand; Septa Mordane always said Dornish people were different, more passionate, freer with words, but Sansa does not sense any of that in Quentyn Martell's carefully worded missives.

He arrives at Winterfell with a group of men and women who look nothing like the people Sansa is used to; all the women are dressed in bright colors, richly outfitted in silks and Myrish lace, some of their fabrics nearly opaque, and all the men smile at her warmly, pressing kisses to her cheek which are too close to the corner of her mouth.

At least, all the men except Quentyn. Her Dornish prince does not look like a prince at all; he is shorter than she is, stocky and not well-muscled. His face is plain and he does not even smile at her. When they sit beside each other at supper, he barely speaks to her at all, sputtering and stuttering through even the simplest of answers, and Sansa stops trying halfway through the meal, preferring to talk to Princess Arianne.

Sansa knows it is shameful to break a marriage contract, but she simply cannot imagine a life with Quentyn Martell. She cries herself to sleep that first night, dreams of a handsome prince shattered by awkward Quentyn Martell.

"I know my brother is not charming," Arianne tells her a fortnight into their stay, "but he has a gentle heart. He is just nervous around you. Quentyn does not have much experience with ladies."

 _Obviously_ , Sansa thinks uncharitably but agrees to show Quentyn the godswood with only Lady as a chaperone. Her future husband eyes her direwolf distrustfully, and Sansa inwardly sighs; she had always hoped for a husband who was bold and brave.

"It is very beautiful here," Quentyn offers when they are beside the pool near the heart tree.

Sansa manages a weak smile. "Thank you, my lord."

"I fear there is nothing quite like it in Dorne. But the water gardens are wonderful. Mayhaps you will like them."

"I am certain I will like much in my new home."

A pained expression crosses Quentyn's face and he bites his lip as if in deep through. Sansa opens her mouth to offer some mindless pleasantry when he blurts out, "I know I am not what you wanted, but I will be a good husband to you, Lady Sansa."

Startled, she lies, "My lord, I - "

"Quentyn," he interrupts with a soft sigh, looking utterly defeated. "If you are going to lie to me, I ask you, at least, use my proper name."

"Quentyn," she repeats obediently, "I am sorry if I have given you reason to believe I am unhappy in our betrothal - "

He holds up a hand with a shake of his head. "Your words are pretty, my lady, but I do not need to hear them. When my father asked me who I wished to seek a marriage contract with, I never dreamed you would accept. I said your name as a jape."

"A jape?" she gasps, horrified and embarrassed.

"Because you are so beautiful," he quickly assures her. "They all talk of it in the South, how beautiful and mannerly you are, how desperately they wished to seek your hand. I thought you would have a dozen offers. When my father told me you accepted mine, I was certain it was a mistake."

Unsure if she is being insulted or complimented, Sansa manages, "I was told you were a good man. That is the type of husband I seek."

Something like hope shining in his eyes, Quentyn carefully reaches out, taking her hand in his; his palm is clammy, uncertain, and Sansa finds it strangely endearing. "Mayhaps we could start again."

"I would like that," she says, surprised at how much she means it.

The next morning she awakes to find a bouquet of fresh flowers on her bedside table. Her lady's maid tells her it is from Quentyn, that he woke at dawn to pluck the blooms; Sansa buries her nose in them, inhaling the scent with a smile on her face.

Over the next week, Quentyn begins to relax around her; though nowhere near as charming or gregarious as his sister or uncle, he no longer looks at his feet when he speaks to her or stutters through a conversation. Once during dinner he is even bold enough to take her hand beneath the table, caressing her fingers and the thin skin over her wrist in such a way it sends shivers down her spine. She waits for him to kiss her, but he never seems to understand her silent hints. Sansa has exchanged kisses with a few boys, and she simply does not understand why Quentyn does not want to kiss her.

"I thought he liked me," she complains to Arianne one afternoon as they sip wine in her rooms.

Arianne laughs. "He does. Quentyn does not want to seem forward or offend your parents."

"He could stand to be a _little_ forward."

The princess's laughter grows even louder. "I will have Oberyn speak to him. Would that be agreeable with you?"

Sansa nods before pausing. "Do you think I'm being terribly unladylike?"

"Sweet Sansa, it is good for the spirit to be unladylike from time to time."

The night before the Martells are to depart for Sunspear, there is a feast. As Sansa dances with Quentyn, trying not to wince at how atrocious he is at it, Quentyn leans in and murmurs, "Might I call on you tonight?"

"You mean...to my room?"

"I would not compromise you, my lady. I simply wish for us to spend time in private before I leave. Our wedding is still a year off, and we will not see each other until then."

Sansa blushes at the idea, feeling delightfully naughty as she nods minutely. "But you must be discreet or else my father and brothers will murder you."

"A strong incentive."

She wears her finest night dress, the one Aunt Lysa sent her that her mother thoroughly disapproved of; it has thin straps, revealing her shoulders and a great deal of her breasts. The back is nearly non-existant, dipping low to reveal the unblemished flesh of her back, and it clings to her shape. As Sansa takes down her hair, studying herself in the large looking glass in the corner of her chamber, she blushes as the picture she presents; she looks like a woman-grown waiting for her lover, and, when Quentyn knocks lightly on her door, she panics, grabbing a robe and tightly knotting it around her waist.

Lady lifts her head when Quentyn enters but does not make a sound as Sansa bars the door. She has never had a man in her chambers who does not share her blood, and, though she is not as attracted to Quentyn as she has been other boys, his presence in her room makes heat flare in her stomach. He smiles at her as he tentatively lifts his hand to touch her hair, and Sansa thinks it is a nice smile if only he'd show it more.

She gasps as Quentyn suddenly moves forward, claiming her mouth; if his words have been tentative, his kiss is anything but and Sansa finds herself clutching at his shirt as she tries to hold him closer. His tongue parts her lips and she can taste wine; it warms her to think of him drinking wine for courage before coming to her. She does not realize they have been moving until the backs of her knees hit the bed, and it is instinct which makes Sansa sit, both of them out of breath.

Sansa stares up at him, and, for the first time, she feels as if she truly sees Quentyn Martell. His black hair is messy from her hands, his golden skin is flushed, his pupils are wide, and his mouth swollen from their kisses; but he looks so happy, Sansa grins before shyly undoing the belt of her robe, shaking off the heavy material to reveal her nightgown.

"Seven hells," Quentyn breathlessly groans before leaning down to capture her lips again, and Sansa trembles at how warm his hands feel through the thin material of the gown. He clumsily climbs onto her bed, trying not to break the kiss, and Sansa laughs against his mouth as they tumble backwards.

As she sits up, looking down at Quentyn who remains on his back, Sansa notices his eyes have settled on her breasts. She blushes, embarrassment and pride warring within her, as Quentyn pushes himself up, his fingers softly caressing her collarbone, gently nudging one thin strap from her shoulder. Sansa bites her lip to keep from crying out when Quentyn presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, goosebumps breaking out across her skin.

“You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” he sighs against her skin, his kisses moving down her chest, mouth hot and moist against the swells of her breasts. “I cannot even believe you are real.”

“Quentyn,” she whispers, inhaling sharply as he nudges the top of her gown away, his tongue flicking against the hard point of her nipple before taking it into his mouth. She grabs his hair with the intention of pulling him away, but it feel so good and nothing like the sin Septa Mordane always said it would.

“I – I must remain a maid,” Sansa manages to say through the pleasure which is beginning to warm her blood, allowing Quentyn to carefully lay her back against the pillows, his hands working her gown from her body. She thinks she should object when he begins to slide her smallclothes off of her, but his hand brushes her lady's place and the sensation which follows makes her back arch off of the bed.

“I won't ruin you,” Quentyn swears, his hands skimming the length of her body. “I just wish to kiss you...everywhere.”

Kissing sounds harmless enough, and, though Sansa knows her parents would be outraged to find her letting her betrothed explore her nude body, Quentyn has not so much as removed his top shirt. Instead he kisses her, starting with her forehead and working his way down; Sansa cannot remain still when he resumes suckling her breasts, and Quentyn moans against her even as he slides his mouth down her stomach. It tickles, the feel of his breath on the sensitive skin of her stomach, and Sansa cards her fingers through his hair; he looks up at her and Sansa gasps at the passion she sees there, carefully hidden away in his serious body.

“Close your eyes.”

Sansa complies, waiting to see where he will kiss her next, hoping he will return to her breasts. But then his mouth is between her thighs, his thumbs opening her as his tongue slides up the length of her, and Sansa cries out, shocked at the act and overwhelmed by the sensation. Quentyn lifts his mouth long enough to shush her before returning to his task, and Sansa feels herself turning crimson in embarrassment at the sounds she is making. She has never heard of such an act before; surely it cannot be something ladies like.

But - _Seven Hells!_ \- does she like it.

His tongue is insistent, lapping at her as if she is a treat, his hands urging her thighs wider, and, as she lifts her head, trying to gain her bearings, Sansa catches sight of them in her looking glass. She gasps at the image: her pale legs splayed, Quentyn's dark head bowed as if in supplication, her entire body flushed bright, face twisted in pleasure. Sansa has never felt so wanton in her life, and she is startled to realize how powerful it makes her feel.

The pleasure peaks so sharply, Sansa cannot help but shout, pushing her hips up as she tries to hold Quentyn's mouth to her; colors dance behind her lids as her muscles seize up, and, when her body relaxes all at once, Quentyn is pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs before moving back to her breasts. She grasps his face, brings him close for a kiss; when she realizes the strange taste on his lips is _her_ , Sansa pulls back, certain she is going to see judgment or disapproval in Quentyn's eyes.

All she sees is love, and it makes her heart twist as he whispers against her ear, “You're perfect.”

As she wraps her arms around him, Sansa thinks her parents might have been right about Quentyn Martell after all.


End file.
